2019-12-02 - Drunker

The bar wasn't exactly hopping tonight and for that the staff is extremely grateful for once. Normally slow nights are the worst. You aren't making any money but you are stuck at the bar and it seems like they often attract stingier than average tippers. But they are grateful for the lack of customers tonight because they have other issues to deal with. Namely a boss who is supposedly working behind the bar, but not actually being of much use to anyone.

And with only an hour to go before close Tina has had enough. "That's it. Sit your sorry ass down at the bar, you're benched Marshall." Easton looks at her confused by this sudden amount order from his employee. But Tina and her ultraKaren-CanISpeakToYourManager-blond-fried-haircut is not backing down. She all but pushes him out from behind the bar, and sets his beer that he's been trying to stick to on the bar in from of a chair. And for the rest of the evening he sits there quietly, drinking his beer and staring out the huge windows at the gentle waves of the bay. Every now and then Tina has to come around and grab a cigarette out of his mouth when he 'forgets' and tries to light up again in the bar.

Precisely on time, Itzhak cruises through the door. He's all bundled up in peacoat, scarf, and soft knit cap cramming down his black curls. Skimming the cap off, he stuffs it into a pocket of his coat, then hangs coat and scarf up, and swags on over to the bar. Seeing Easton isn't behind the bar, but sitting at it, he pulls up a stool next to him. "Night so slow the owner's gotta play he's a customer?"

Easton doesn't seem to notice Itzhak until he's right next to him. He looks up and blinks, "Hey! Rosencrantz!" His voice booms out across the bar with sudden volume and fervor. He slaps the taller man on his shoulder in greeting. The greeting seems to snap him out of whatever funk he's been in, forces him to get out of his head at least for a moment.

It seems that Tina was waiting for either Isabella or someone to come join the man at the bar because as soon as Itzhak sits down, she tosses down her towel and says, "He's all yours. And he's closing." She doesn't care if that doesn't register with Easton, she's done. She has already closed out the other customers like a responsible server and with that she just goes to get her stuff and leave.

"Well looks like I'm going to have actually pour some more drinks here if you want any." Easton gets up and takes his beer to float behind the bar. He blinks and stops, a little surprised to realize he doesn't know Itzhak's drink yet. He looks at him and asks in slow confusion "Side.. car?" For a bartender who does a pretty damn good job of remembering both names and either favorite or most recent drink this slip is more than a little annoying.

Itzhak grins at Easton. "How's by ya, Marshall." He honestly doesn't seem mad! The thwap on the shoulder and the shout make him laugh. "Yeah, okay," he says to Tina, like it's perfectly normal that he show up at closing time and get Easton handed over to him. Sure. Why not. "Have a good night, huh?"

His eyes track Easton as he gets behind the bar and then blanks out on his drink. "Sidecar sounds great," he says, eyebrows and one corner of his mouth lifting in a wry little expression.

"No. I have had a shitty night, followed by a crappy day and the week's forecast is balls."

Easton manages to at least not sound like he's complaining when he lays out the reality of his day. He doesn't actually realize that Itzhak was wishing Tina a good night, not asking about his. At least until he catches a look from Itzhak that likely informs him that wasn't a question for him. But oh well. He shakes his head, obviously not with it. He manages to pour the drink well though, not sloshing anything about or screwing up the classic.

He slides the drink across to the tall New York Jew and manages to somehow in the same motion hold up a hand at another customer trying to get his attention for an after hours drink as well. "No. Fuck, no.. Go home."

Just because he shuts them down brutally doesn't mean they stop trying. But Bill takes it well and peels himself off the barstool to drunkenly sway his way out the front door.

Itzhak pops his eyebrows without remark, like, 'fair', when Easton tells him he's had a shitty night. He was talking to Tina, but hey! whatever. He looks after Bill as the poor yutz sails his way home on three sheets to the wind, then turns back when he's presented with his cocktail. "Thanks, pal. L'chaim." He toasts Easton in Hebrew with a lift of the glass, and sips. And sighs happily. "Shit that's good. So, nu?" That's New York Jew for 'lay the deets on me.'

Easton raises his own beer at the toast, but doesn't sip, no he chugs. Because the bar is officially closed and he can stop pretending like he doesn't want to drown himself in a bottle of whiskey. He sets the glass down a little too hard but doesn't seem to notice or care. He may not understand the exact phrase but the intonation is universal.

"Bennie left. I told her I fucked up. And so yea. I got that going for me. Not sure how I expected that to go but pretty sure I was thinking somehow better than that?"

"What?" Itzhak says, sidecar halting on the way up as he freezes in place. "What?? She didn't...you weren't..." Didn't give you permission, weren't open is what he doesn't quite say there. "Shit, Marshall." He shakes his head. "Well, ya sure fucked up. Sorry, pal." His tone is genuinely sympathetic. Then he drains a good slug of the sidecar, even though it's too good to chug, but he obviously needs to do some catching up.

"Yea." Easton confirms and then again, "Yup." It's not really an answer to the question of what, but it kind of also is?

He blows out a long breath and nods as Itzhak repeats that he fucked up. He pulls out a bottle of whiskey without having to look at which one, uncorks it and pours himself a pint of whiskey. A full pint. He's not fucking around, none of this old fashioned sized glasses for him. He's only not drinking out of the bottle because that actually gets annoying sometimes.

"How bout you? Please tell me your life is somewhere above the sliding scale of shit that is mine right now."

Itzhak's eyebrows really go up at the sight of Easton pouring himself a fucking pint of hard liquor. Oh. So this is what Tina meant by 'he's all yours'. "Yeah, it's pretty dece," he says, cautiously. "I mean, I'm fuckin' pissed off at de la Vega, but... other'n that? Way more shit has gone right for me in this crap town than in New York, I can tell you. You know, maybe that's not saying that much."

He's torn between telling Easton to go easy on that, and just going all in himself. Well, Itzhak never saw a cliff he didn't want to drive off, so he picks up the bottle of whiskey and takes a pull.

Easton lifts the glass to his lips and just gives him a wry smile as he mentions being pissed off at Ruiz. He lifts his eyebrows but doesn't say anymore on the topic. They covered this already and considering Easton knew nothing about their connection and still doesn't have details that he doesn't want to ask after, he just lets the man be pissed. But he's saved from having to comment on it by the next bit.

"How shitty was your life in the New York that Gray Harbor is treating you better?!"

The question explodes out of him in surprise and mock horror. "I mean holy fuck, I think I'd take Afghanistan over this place and that was literally a country full of people trying to kill me."

The pull on the bottle gets a laugh and Easton sets up another glass. A regular old fashioned glass meant for whiskey and he asks, "Ice? Or neat?" before pouring one for Itzhak.

"Yeah, people tell me that," Itzhak mutters into the remains of the sidecar. It's a shame to waste the rim, so he licks the sugar off all 'round, turning the smooth lip of the glass against his tongue.

"New York, I had family, I had some work, but it was under the table. Couldn't get a job, couldn't keep a job if I had one, always startin' some fight with some asshole. It sucked looking into my future and seein' forty more years of the same. I was in a band for a while, that was good, but we broke up when the guys whose band it was had to move back to Louisiana to take care of their ma." Itzhak nods to the glass. "On the rocks. Thanks."

Easton smirks but doesn't out right laugh at the comment about people telling him that. Because as darkly funny as it is that Gray Harbor, a town of literal nightmares made flesh, is considered better, it's also really sad. And he's not drunk enough yet to laugh in people's faces about their confessions. Give it time. Just ask Isabella.

"That sucks." Easton agrees but then can't help but add, "But it's so weird to hear normal problems again. I'm so used to dealing with serial killer ghosts and rotting zombie corpses and like flying rapist toaster demons that hearing about someone struggling to get work and stay out of trouble feels like a breath of fresh air almost." He takes a sip of his whiskey, which he is at least not gulping down, but is definitely planning on finishing the pint.

The glass of Knob Creek on the rocks is slid over to the other man.

Easton leans down on the bar and asks, "So what brought you here? It was the flying rapist toasters wasn't it."

Itzhak huffs a rueful laugh. "Ex-con." He holds up his left hand, the one that says STAY on it in faded blue ink. The other one says DOWN. "Hard enough to get a job like that when you're not already a queer without no education and with a temper." Then he smirks into the glass of whiskey, taking a couple few sips. Deadpan, "I heard about the flying rapist toasters and thought, I gotta get in on that action. Nah, a, uh, a friend of the family sold me his garage out here that needed pickin' up. So I came on out. Rent's cheap, own my own business, could never fucking do that in Manhattan. How about you?"

Easton's eyebrows raise a bit, but not much at explanation. He nods and gives a half shrug at the ink on the hands as if to say, 'that makes sense'. He tries not to wince at the self-reference of 'a queer' but isn't quite successful at it. He tries to cover it by taking a sip of his whiskey. He coughs and laughs at the desire to get in on the toasters, "Understandable." He loses track of himself again seemingly and pulls out a cigarette to light up in the bar as he continues the actual story.

"Me? I ... My parents had a place here. We used to come for the summer. And after I got blown to shit in the Marines my fiance made this whole plan for us to come out here and me to run this place." He exhales a long plume of smoke before saying, "And I screwed that up too and then came out here anyway." He doesn't mention how he screwed that up, but given his latest indiscretion it's probably not too hard to figure out.

Itzhak picks up on Easton's wince, almost like he expected it to happen. So he reaches over, plucks Easton's cigarette out of his fingers, and takes a long drag off it himself. "What's with the face?" he asks, raising one challenging eyebrow. "I ain't the only one in the room here, Marshall."

The picking of the cigarette gets a raised eyebrow but a smile when Itzhak takes a drag. There was a moment there when he thought Itzhak might do something terrible like stub it out. He reaches back for it though and retrieves before the challenge. He shrugs and says, "I don't really care for that word. Or .. talk about this. Much." He puts the cigarette in his mouth and takes another drag. And then he admits, "At all." as in he never talks about it.

Itzhak surrenders the cigarette, shifting on the stool to face Easton with one elbow hanging on the bar. "What word d'ya like better? Bisexual? Maybe pansexual? There's a bunch of 'em for guys like us." Then he leans forward, his gray-green-brown hazel eyes narrowing. "Maybe you oughta talk about it, since you're sure as fuck thinking about it and lettin' your dick run around on you and ruin ya life."

"I sometimes fuck dudes? Is that a label? I'll take that one." Easton smirks and takes one more drag before offering the cigarette back to Itzhak. He shakes his head at the suggestion of pansexual, "I literally don't even know what that one means? Is it the fucking toasters again?" It's a reasonably good callback but the first part is an honest confession. He shakes his head and says, "Probably a little late for that. My dick is a prolific life ruiner."

"Sure, it's a label if you want it to be." Itzhak then drinks while Easton talks. "This is too good to get wasted on," he mutters, tipping the glass to eyeball it. "Eh, when in Rome." And he lets the rest of it slide on down his long throat, his Adam's apple working. "Think you're probably saying you don't want no label, though, you just want to fuck dudes. Nuthin' wrong with that." The more Itzhak drinks, the more languid he gets, slowly going boneless against the bar. "Bi and pan and queer all pretty much mean the same thing, which, is that. You like more'n one gender. That's me, baby."

Easton raises his glass in a cheers to his own made up label. Taking a big sip he laughs when Itzhak says it's 'too good' to get wasted on. "I don't know if I agree with that label either. I don't think there exists a too good to get loaded on" says a man who has gotten loaded on nearly everything from gas station 40s of Hurricane to rare wine uncorked for fiftieth anniversary dinners. He grunts in assent at there not being anything wrong with that.

He shrugs and says, "Alright, yea that. But I'll be honest, I've never had success in a relationship with a guy. I've dated plenty of women, but guys" He half shrugs. "Boys are dumb." definitely including himself in that statement.

"Men are trash." Itzhak is all too willing to agree with that. "Never had a boyfriend who wasn't a man-ho." ...Is he including Ruiz in that? Probably. "Never ain't been one myself," he adds, with wry resignation, and pours himself another. "I try to be honest about it though, yannow? Tell people what they can expect outta me. I didn't used to, and brother, let me tell you, the morning afters were hell." Not...that Easton needs him to tell him that. Easton knows! Intimately.

Drinking down some whiskey, he suddenly says, kind of out of nowhere, "It ain't that you fucked him that I'm mad about. It's that you. Fucked. Him. As in. Somethin' he ain't let me do." Then he steals the cigarette back for a drag, his eyes going hooded and sulky.

Still working on his pint of whiskey, Easton again hefts it, this time to men being trash. He nods his head in a agreement before taking a sip. "That's fair." Easton lumps himself in with the man-ho grouping. He then nods a little drunkenly at the comment about honesty. "It is the best policy."

The cigarette is held loosely in front of him as Itzhak confesses a bit more. Easton blinks and his eyebrows raise, "oh" he says softly at first and then "Oh" with more emphasis. "Well if it makes you feel any better he was pretty pissed off about it." An inappropriate chuckle spills out into an all out laugh.

"We didn't exactly cuddle after."

Itzhak coughs out smoke on a startled laugh. "Bet he was pissed off about it. Believe me, I know he don't cuddle. The asshole." Then, like a grabby jerk, he leans over, hooks a long inked forefinger through the neck of Easton's shirt, and tells him, "I'd cuddle with ya, Marshall." Welcome to drunk Itzy.

Between the laughing and the near pint of whiskey he's imbibed thus far on top of his beers Easton is totally taken off guard by the hand in his shirt. He gets pulled forward ever so slightly and says, "Oh yea?" as if that were just some interesting fact thrown out there and not a proposition of sorts. He looks down at the hand and back up at Itzhak and searches his face. His eyes are a little heavy from the drink and he's still catching his breath from laughing. He considers it and finally says, "My place isn't far."

"You like pitchin' and catchin'? God, so do I." Itzhak is watching Easton, his own eyelids heavy, and he's, wow, he's really close now, leaning in, almost bumping Easton's nose with his own enormous schnozz. He smells like whiskey and cigarette smoke and orange liqueur. "You're hot. I hope you know that." His voice drops low. "Built like a fire plug." But he doesn't respond, not yet, to Easton saying his place isn't far.

When Itzhak leans in and starts talking about preferences Easton smiles, not a soft happy smile, but a dark almost mean smile. He could honestly tell Bennie that he didn't have a plan going into that night with Ruiz. But this? Easton knew from the text exchange what the likelihood of this was. But he doesn't have anyone to lie to about it now. He tries to push that thought out of his head, and the best way he knows to do that? He pressed forward and presses his lips to Itzhak's pushing himself up on the bar to reach. He kisses him hard and almost as quickly pulls away to inform him, "You talk too much."

Itzhak makes a low harsh sound in his throat when he's kissed. When Easton pulls away, he eyes him, running his tongue tip over his lips. "Don't I?" he says, grinning a wicked, lopsided grin...but then it fades. He leans back, turning his head away, expression sinking into a scowl.

"Fuck," he mutters. Then, louder, "Fuck!" and stands up (making it obvious that he's pitching a tent in his snug jeans). He sways a little, hands clamped on the edge of the bar. "I gotta go," he says, not looking at Easton, ashamed.

Easton watches the grin fade and slips back down off the bar, watching him the whole time. And as it turns to a scowl his own expression turns into a skeptical, 'what is happening here' look of concern. And then there's swearing. Easton lifts his glass and just takes a drink, realizing this isn't happening once the man stands. He sets the glass down and starts to laugh again. This time a more rueful, quiet laugh.

"Oh you gotta go? Seriously? Fuck you." There's no heat or anger behind the words. He's still laughing but he can't quite help keep his tone from getting a little more serious as he adds, "Good. Get the fuck outta my bar."

Itzhak reels back a couple steps, hands flexing at his sides. The look he shoots Easton now is 60% horny and 40% ready to fight. And 20% ashamed, because drunk Itz can't math. But he hmphs, his mouth twisting in another smirk; one that he doesn't quite feel, but it's there. "Thanks for the drink, Marshall. Some other time, huh?" And the hot, raking once-over he gives Easton then, down and then allll the way back up. "Right now I think I'll go fuck de la Vega up the ass." He saunters for the door, stride rolling and saucy.

"Fuck off."

Easton isn't having it with the 'thanks for the drink' or hearing about Itzhak's actual plans for the night right now. The mix of embarrassment, disappointment, frustration and relief are too much for his drunken mind to unravel. Hence swearing. Swearing is the default expression for Easton at this point.

Once he's gone, Easton downs the rest of the whiskey in the glass and sets the glass back down on the bar, again, hard. He runs both his hands down his face and goes to lean back against the bar but misjudges the distance, stumbles and falls against it and ends up on his ass. He continues to laugh the same slightly unhinged laugh of someone laughing without a good reason anymore. He doesn't get up from the spot, just lights up another cigarette and pulls out a different bottle of whiskey.

"Way to go you fucking trainwreck."

At this point Easton's not sure if he's just hearing Tom's voice in his head, actually saying the words that he thinks Tom would have said out loud or just thinking them really loudly.

And frankly he's not sure it matters, it's fucked up.